I found myself grateful that yesterday’s reading, “Ex Oblivione,” from the venerable H. P. Lovecraft, was but a brief excursion into his eldritch domain. Though the resurgence of my October tradition—immersing daily in the master of cosmic horror’s inky depths of terror—fills me with a dark thrill, the demands of life often render these moments of reflection fleeting and elusive. Yesterday’s tale was mercifully brief, yet today I faced a more formidable task. “The Nameless City,” the longest in The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft so far, awaited me, yet, to my fortune, this day lacked the frenetic chaos of the last.
That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die.
In this tale, our hapless narrator ventures into the heart of the Arabian Peninsula, lured by the promise of a lost city shrouded in forgotten lore. He traverses desolate ruins and ominous carvings, ultimately discovering a cliff lined with low, stunted buildings—structures clearly not meant for human habitation. Within a larger, grim temple, he descends into an abyssal corridor, where he is greeted by grotesque reptiles encased in ancient coffins. Crawling ever deeper, he finds a brass door and a mist-laden portal, haunted by distant, disquieting moans. A sinister wind beckons him toward the light, revealing creatures grotesque in form—crocodilian yet unearthly. The wind ceases, yet the door seals him in blackness, alone with the nameless dread.